


Do-Re-We Weren't Meant To Be

by orphan_account



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Choir AU, Gen, M/M, Omegaverse, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 21:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17454467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They weren’t meant to be friends.Misaki and Saruhiko weren’t meant to be a lot of things.Or the Omegaverse au with Omega!Saruhiko that nobody asked for





	Do-Re-We Weren't Meant To Be

**Author's Note:**

> A repost of a work I deleted awhile ago  
> Plz don't be too harsh and plz comment

They weren’t meant to be friends.

 

Saruhiko knew this, knew what everyone thought, that when they hung out, Misaki was staking his claim, marking his territory, thought “How could a helpless little omega possibly be considered an equal to an alpha? Surely he must be bending over for that alpha.”

 

In fact Saruhiko had made that same insinuation when they first met. When Misaki charged into Saruhiko’s life like a fool thinking he could do something about it.

 

(He’d said after dusting himself off, “I hope you’re not expecting me to fall all over myself to mate with the “Heroic” alpha that saved me from a group of thugs.”

 

Misaki had looked surprised, Saruhiko would find out later that Misaki wasn’t someone who had ulterior motives, and even if he did he wasn’t a good enough liar to be able to hide them.) 

 

Then they met again, in the bathroom, Saruhiko had been streaming an online performance by Jungle’s mosh posh online choir, they connected people all over the world through music from an app. Misaki thought it was amazing , the fact that Saruhiko could break the fire walls surrounding their PDAs during class and the symphony of voices that echoed in the stall. Saruhiko had thought it was mystical, the sound that was coming out of his PDA’s speakers, it wasn’t categorized by secondary gender, nothing mattered except for the voices. 

 

And then came Aya, annoyingly clingy cousin Aya, who had recently gotten oh-so attached to Misaki. She had wanted them to try to join Jungle’s choir, she had looked up and saw a glittering airship and sang a song about it, her vocals were subpar, her voice was off pitch and her vowels were far too spread, she had failed. Saruhiko didn’t have to listen too long to know she wasn’t going to win. His father had sang, had hammered into him what failure sounded like, laughing about how if Saruhiko was going to be a “dumb omega monkey”, he was going to have to at least know how to sing properly, he laughed about how Saruhiko could take after him. 

 

(Saruhiko had cried at first, running to that woman, in the hopes that she could save him, she looked at him like an ant, reminding him painfully of the ones his father had burned, he never asked again.)

 

Eventually they developed a goal to bring the world to its knees with just their voices, they sang together as a duo, freelancers in the jungle system until one day, sitting under a lamppost, Misaki was entranced by the group HOMRA. Saruhiko didn’t belong, everyone there was at least a tenor or lower and at least a beta, he had the vocal range of a soprano and continued to take suppressants to stave off his heats.

 

He stood out glaringly so. 

 

That being said, he would have been fine, could have withstood all of it. If only Misaki had realized that he was continuously scoring 0’s, if only Misaki had kept his eyes on him, but he always, always kept turning towards his new “Family”. Saruhiko got so, so tired of it, he grew apathetic towards his situation, because if Saruhiko was the type to curse his circumstances, omega or otherwise and cry about it, he would have sunk all of japan with his tears. 

 

Life had never been fair, and it never would be. 

 

While Misaki sang with his new family Saruhiko was counting the seconds until Misaki’s presence fully left his side, until his citrus passion fruit scent left him.

 

During one of these excursions, he sat outside their practice room, somewhat sulkily, and he heard it, an arrangement, full of order and serenity, nothing like the chaotic songs they practiced at HOMRA. This type of song was the reason he fell in love with choral music, because despite what his father had shown him, the ugly, bombastic side of singing, of music, a group of properly managed people could create the most beautiful sounds on earth. 

 

(He had been caught listening by their leader Reishi Munakata. He’d smelt him before he saw him, like white roses mixed with hydrangeas.

 

“Shouldn’t you be conducting?”

 

Munakata had laughed it off, saying, “It is something to be heard, isn’t it. How each voice fits, how a each piece is a puzzle, just waiting for someone to put it together.” 

 

He chuckled a, what Saruhiko would find out was, a very Munakata-esque chuckle. 

 

“Though the puzzle does seems to be missing a piece.” ) 

 

In the time it takes a chorus to sing a scale* Saruhiko had left for the group SCEPTER 4.

 

(“What Misaki, did you think I actually wanted to sing with you and your chorus of thugs, god Misaki how gullible can you be?” 

 

He had taken a knife, and cut through the mark they had once shared, suddenly Saruhiko’s scent was clouded by a coppery metal cloud of hate.

 

It had hurt, not physically, well yes physically, but more emotionally. Saruhiko had prepared, though it wasn’t enough, he had sheets of ice wrapped around his heart, they worked like armor, he made sure they never took them off.

 

So it didn’t sting when Misaki had called him a traitor, he revelled in it, in Misaki finally, finally looking at him.)

 

Misaki, he didn’t understand, understand why Saruhiko had left HOMRA, had left him. 

 

(Their house, his house now, still faintly smelled of him vanilla and lavender, he blinked once, twice, but tears, stubborn sons of bitches, kept falling, Misaki's tears kept falling, heavy and hot against his face, ripping out shudders and sobs, then he realized he was screaming, and it was agonizing, his vocal cords stretched taught.

 

He didn’t sing for days after that. It didn’t feel like dys to him, every second was a century, every minute millenia.}

 

Then slowly time fell back into joint. 

 

Not because the wounds they inflicted on each other healed, never healed. But because they kept jabbing at each other. They both indulged in hiding behind caustic remarks. Letting their wounds fester, physical and emotional.

 

(But sometimes it was more, sometimes they fought, physically inflicting real, no because every slash felt real, tangible pain. 

 

Because, for Misaki at least, it hurt less, less than what Saruhiko was always doing, because Saruhiko hadn’t burnt their bridge, he dirtied it. 

 

Like he’d broken his half of a piece of wood they were both holding and instead of throwing it away like any other person, he used his broken, splintered half to stab at him. And it left too many splinters.)

 

They never talked about what they had, what Saruhiko felt Misaki never noticed, what Misaki felt he’d lost before he’d known it was there. 

 

Misaki and Saruhiko weren’t meant to be a lot of things.


End file.
